Maybe I can coax another one. “Do you fancy a thirteen-inch dildo, Mr. Savoy?”
He glances at the empty doorway and composes his expression into that of an imperious casino boss. “I see you found the stage. Is it adequate for your routine?”
Ugh. So stiff. I’d love to see him loosen up. I bet it’s glorious.
“Depends.” I swing my legs around and stand at the center of the platform. “Still rethinking that job offer?”
His gaze latches onto my mouth before it makes a slow descent along my neck, tracing the shape of my breasts, my hips, and the apex of my thighs. My entire body reacts, igniting deep within my core and spreading outward to inflame my skin. My nipples tighten. My pulse kicks up, and a throbbing ache flares between my legs.
Jesus, this man is potent. All he has to do is stand there in his tailored suit and transmit displeasure like it’s foreplay. His sculpted lips part naturally, forming an enticing fracture in that scowl, which is framed by a jawline carved in right angles. So commanding. Masculine. Way too hot for a stuffed shirt.
He hasn’t moved his focus from the vicinity of my crotch, so I snap my fingers in his line of sight.
Those stark blue eyes jump to my face, and there’s something glowing in the depths. Something needy and compulsive and…resentful.
“You don’t like me very much, do you?” I anchor my fists on my hips.
“That’s negligible.” He paces around the stage, hands folded behind him. “Let’s go to my office so you can sign the contract and—”
“I don’t think so, Scoot McGoot.” I stretch my arms out, encompassing the 360-degree panorama of crowded casino tables and one-armed bandits. “I hate to break it to you, because this really is a great stage, but no one out there cares about a dancer in a restaurant. Doesn’t matter how much you pay me.”
His pacing veers toward the bar, where he bends behind the steel counter, vanishing from view.
Before I can ask what he’s doing, a column of soft light envelopes me from head to toe. The source shines from beneath my feet, and as I step forward, the light follows me, effectively encasing me in a glowing tube.
“So cool.” I bounce from side to side, captivated by the accuracy of the motion sensor.
He messes with something on the back wall, and a sultry, fast-tempo pop song streams from hidden speakers. I recognize it immediately. The deep vocals of the Haitian rapper. The stately resonance of brass instruments. The vibrating clap-clap-clap of percussion. The high-energy composition of Hips Don't Lie by Shakira. It’s a song I practice to often, and my body twitches to ride the rhythm.
“Dance.” Trace stalks toward the stage and stares up at me. “Please.”
Saturated in the beam of light beneath my toes, I tremble with excitement. His please isn’t the only reason I pull off my shirt, but it’s a powerful incentive. I doubt he uses that word often, and standing before him in a sports bra and low-waist jeans, I’m happy to oblige.
The music thumps through me, setting the pace of my breaths. My arms move first, lifting sensuously, flowing like a lazy wave from one hand to the other and taking my shoulders with them. I hold my hips still, concentrating all movement above my chest. Making him wait for it.
The way he stares up at me… Sweet hell, it says everything he doesn’t. Grave and serious, his blue eyes devour my body with naked interest, as if I’m beautiful, as if he desperately wants to touch me, grab me, fuck me.
Buttoned up and crisply starched, his suit molds to the muscled form of his body, as if challenging me to stare. To want. To conjure images of my hands stripping every immaculate layer.
The volume grows louder, and I engage my abdominal wall, undulating the muscles in a rippling shiver. His thick shoulders lift with an intake of air, a breath he holds for several counts before releasing, relaxing, and inhaling again.
I affect him—my body, my art, my command of both. It gives me a sense of power over him. Not that I intend to see him again, but for one night, in an empty restaurant, it’s invigorating.
When the song reaches a staccato rhythm, I punctuate the beats with vertical hip drops, outward hip hits, shoulder accents, and ribcage lifts. The fluid motion of my body aligns with the instruments, pulling me into a state of hypnosis that carries me across the platform, floating on a column of light and curving my lips from corner to corner.
I smile because I appreciate the sensual gestures, the mellifluous lines and bends of my frame. I smile because as Trace watches me, his eyes glow at max voltage, electrocuting the short distance between us.
Leaning toward him, I shimmy what little I have on my chest and meet his gaze. Bending deeper, I hang my head and roll my shoulders in a dance of their own, caught in the music, held by the moment.
Upside down, my hair sweeps the floor, arms hanging beside my face as my deltoids, lats, and traps contract and bounce in a textured choreography of muscle.
Slowly, I rise, raising my arms above my head and rolling my hips in infinity loops. As I lower my hands alongside my face, I writhe my fingers in sinuous, seductive waves, tilting my head, gyrating my pelvis, and making his jaw dip lower, lower…
He snaps his mouth shut, his chest rising and the rims of his eyes tightening with tension.
I know what he sees. I’ve memorized my reflection in the mirror as I sway and rock through the serpentine maneuvers. The shimmies, shivers, and flexibility of my hips. The female form moving in a way that simulates flexibility, promiscuity, and sexual energy. I’m an actress on a stage, eliciting emotion and feeding off the reactions. Or in this case, one reaction.
I put an extra kick in my hip tilts and laugh as his jaw twitches toward a smile. “You like that?”
His face instantly cements back into stone, his eyes thunderous.
The song winds to a close, and I slow my movements, lowering my arms and gazing to the side and at the floor until silence blankets the room. Then I bend in a customary bow and blow him a kiss as I straighten.
He reaches for the knot of his tie and drops his hand. “Turn around.”
“Why?”
His lips clamp together, darkening his expression, as if I committed blasphemy by questioning him.
Our silent standoff doesn’t last long. I’m too curious to not turn around, and when I do, my breath hitches. “Whoa.”
Twenty, thirty…maybe fifty people gather on the other side of the glass wall. Most are men, but women congregate, too. And employees. Others linger near the tables farther back, eyes pointed in my direction, watching.
I wave at the crowd and smile. “Why are they—?”
“You’re good, Danni.” His timbre comes from somewhere near the bar behind me.
The light beneath my feet blinks off, veiling me in shadows and signaling the audience to disperse.
“You really think I’m good, huh?” I hop off the stage and slip my feet into the flip-flops.